A Ghost's Story
by Spiritus Scriptor
Summary: After his return to life, Susannah gives Jesse a journal in the hopes that writing down his thoughts will help him adjust to life in the 21st century. Jesse isn't exactly sure how to approach this, but he's going to try. Sort-of AU.
1. Chapter 1

**I'm calling this story an AU mainly because it's been so long since I actually read these books that I forgot some of details, and I haven't read Remembrance or any of the novellas. But the plot bunnies struck and so I had to appease them. You know how it goes.**

* * *

January 14th, 2006

My life has begun anew.

I can hardly believe what I have just written, but it's true. I am alive again after so many years of merely existing. It is nothing short of miraculous.

Susannah gave me this journal in the hopes that writing things down would help me adjust to life in the modern world. She insists that it's perfectly acceptable to be more open with my emotions, and that if I'm not able to be so candid with her, that keeping a journal will at least keep my thoughts from cluttering my head. I suppose I can't argue with that; I need to keep my head as clear as I can right now. There is so much to learn, and so much that still confuses me. Susannah tries her best to get me 'up to speed, but sometimes I think she gets exasperated with all my questions. Yesterday I asked her how a credit card works—I'm familiar with buying things on credit, but I wanted to know the mechanics of the thing. How a flat piece of plastic operated as currency. She merely explained that it was 'electronic' and left it at that.

I'll admit, I don't quite know why she places so much importance on my mental and emotional well-being, but I've been doing some reading, and a focus on 'mental health' does seem to have merit, medically speaking. The concept is more or less foreign to me yet, but I will learn. I suppose I'll have to, if I want to stand a chance at being a doctor someday.

Besides, Susannah did save my life. I owe her so much more than merely obliging her on this point.

I never kept any sort of journal or diary in my previous life—how strange it is to think of it in those terms! But I know that my third youngest sister, Marta, did. Possibly my other sisters did as well, but hers was the only one I ever saw. She left it out on her bedside table once and I, as a typical brother, just couldn't resist. It wasn't as though she never teased _me_ mercilessly about anything. Perhaps I would find some tawdry confession of love to taunt her with, or threaten to tell Mamá about.

Imagine my surprise when its pages were filled with the most boring content imaginable. What she wore that day, what she had for breakfast...there was even a shopping list, for God's sake. By far the most interesting passage was about a party we had recently attended. At least she'd put some of her own thoughts into it. But that too got boring, when she began recollecting what was served for dinner, and that she despised mutton but forced herself to eat it to be polite...

I suppose she must have assumed that someone would read it. Do people typically write diaries under the assumption that they are not as private as they should be? I shudder to think of anyone reading my innermost thoughts and fears, but should this book ever fall into the wrong hands, the very nature of my..._unique_ situation may be enough to condemn me. I do not mean to sound ungrateful for this second chance at life, but I would be lying if I said I didn't fear some sort of divine repercussion—likely in the form of some sort of witch hunt. I know people now are not as superstitious as they were two centuries ago, but I cannot bear the possibility that some might still consider me, a living, mortal man, to be a supernatural being or a demon.

It is the fear of being misunderstood or viewed as something of a novelty that makes me hesitant to befriend anyone. How can I forge meaningful connections with people if I cannot tell them who I truly am? Even if I did, I would not expect them to believe me. Not really.

I wonder how long it will take for the sadness and longing and emptiness to dissipate. I don't think it ever will entirely, but I will have to figure out a way to move past it. Memories of my past life are bittersweet. Though they have been gone for over a century, I still miss my family and friends terribly. It hurts more than words can express to know that Susannah will never get to meet them. All I can do is tell her their stories, and hope that will keep their memory alive.

Sometimes I wonder how their lives played out after I..._nombre de Dios_, it's still painful to say. After I died. Death. A word that should be final...but wasn't. At least, not for me. I wonder how long each of them lived, if all of my sisters got married, if they ever told their husbands and children about me. I hope my parents forgave me, in the end, for my apparent dishonorable actions. I wonder what they decided had happened to me.

And after my...untimely demise, I spent so many years passing by unseen—save by a few, and only one besides Susannah who wasn't overtly terrified of me. Perhaps I will write about her someday.

It seems my thoughts _are_ cluttering my head. I can't even keep them from meandering on paper. I'll have to work on that.

On a more trivial note, I've discovered that I hate ballpoint pens. You have to hold them at such an unnatural angle and write with so much pressure that it nearly tears the paper, and the ink comes out almost like tar. I'll have to see about getting a better pen if I'm to continue with this journal.


	2. Chapter 2

**A most riveting chapter in which Jesse legally comes into existence.**

**I'm actually having a lot of fun trying to find Jesse's writing 'voice'. Supposedly diaries from the 19th century are actually pretty impersonal...which I might have alluded to in the last chapter. Basically, people did write them assuming they were going to be read by their relatives/ancestors after their death as a sort of memorial.**

**Because I decided to present Jesse as inexperienced with diary writing, in keeping with the fact that he is quite a voracious reader I tried to give him just a hint of an old novel-type style (Dickens, etc. from that era), dipping into a bit of purple prose here and there. They did love their purple prose a couple centuries ago. But here and now in the 21st century, that has become passe, so I kept it to the barest of minimums.**

* * *

_**January 17, 2006**_

Father Dominic brought me back to the rectory to stay for the time being. I do not know how he arranged it, as typically the residents are not allowed guests. But he tells me that as long as I earn my keep, I am welcome to stay. I'm still unclear on what earning my keep entails, but I've been trying to help out as much as I can.

I have been given time to rest and recover from my ordeal and to 'get my bearings', as he termed it. I've been here a little more than a week and so far I have learned to operate a washing machine and dryer, electric stove, and a microwave, but the dishwasher...well, shall I say, arranging the dishes in such a way that they actually get clean is something of an art form. Or a game of...Tetris, I think it's called.

Father Dominic advised the others to give me space, as I had just arrived from the hospital after being in a coma, however brief it was. I'm ashamed to admit, I don't know exactly what a coma is. I'm sure for most people it is not their soul being separated from their body. Father Dominic was advised by the doctor upon my release to keep a close watch on me for the next few days, as I am still weak and at risk of falling. Weak I may be, but my mind is as energetic as it has ever been. I'm eager to start socializing with people again, even if my current company are all priests.

Most of them have been welcoming, but there is one that I'm worried about—Father Timothy. He is young, perhaps only a few years older than I, and quite...excitable.

'High strung', I believe, is the more modern and accurate term.

I didn't pay much attention to him when I was here as an unseen guest. He did not stand out from the others in any significant way. I think it's the fact that there is now someone here closer to him in age (if only he knew!) that's gotten him excited. So far he's been overwhelmingly friendly towards me, asking questions that would not seem too personal to most, but that I am running out of ideas for how to evade. He has had to be reminded on more than one occasion that I've been through a grave ordeal and sometimes need to be left in peace.

Today Father Dominic asked me to come to his office in the school on the pretense of conducting some sort of vocational counseling session. It's Saturday, so no one should be around, but I must admit I am a little nervous. I have no idea what he actually wants.

_Later..._

As it turns out, he wanted to know my true life story in order to better fabricate a new one-is it a mortal sin for priests to lie as much as he does? Thus far he has told everyone that I'd been preparing for the priesthood, studying under a missionary priest in Mexico who he knew somehow, but started questioning whether or not a religious vocation was what I really wanted in life. And so my mentor and he agreed that I was to be sent here on sabbatical until I make up my mind. Only Monsignor Constantine knows any more than that, and Father Dominic is refusing to tell me exactly what it was he told him that made him-grudgingly-decide I could stay. I'm guessing it wasn't my recent 'accident' and subsequent hospital stay. I heard him arguing with Father Dominic after Vespers one evening about charitable organizations that offer help to people in my predicament…

I was not too pleased by his tone. He was making me sound like a miscreant.

I have tried my best to avoid him as much as possible and pray that he will not seek me out.

In any case, I enjoyed my walk across the grounds this afternoon. It was really the first time I'd been outside for more than a minute or two, and, with my senses no longer dulled for lack of a physical body, had been able to feel the breeze and smell the fresh sea air and the delicate scent of flowers wafting from the garden. It was a pleasant, mild day, typical for this time of year-in California at least. I remember when Susannah first moved here she was delighted by the prospect of going to the beach in January. As I recall it is a little cold to swim, but not too cold to build sand castles. Which I don't think she and her friends do. They're too mature for that sort of thing, you know.

I wonder what she would say if I told her about how my sisters and I used to build the most magnificent sculptures, and how it was always a bit sad to see them washed away by the tide. She would probably laugh and say she thought I was too serious for such things. Or that we all were. I've noticed that many people nowadays-including Susannah, who has gotten to know me and my sarcastic tendencies quite well by now-view the past as completely is that? Is it because we didn't usually smile while sitting for portraits and photographs?

I've come to the conclusion that the reason why I am missing my family more now than I have in at least a century must be that the separate memories of my living self and my ghost have come together in one mind-and to the living me, those memories were much more recent. It had been but a day since I'd left home.

I cannot dwell on this any longer. It will do me no good. I resolved to step into the future this afternoon, and if I keep looking behind me, I'll never get there.

Father Dominic was more amiable than usual when I arrived at his office, and said he was glad to see me up and about and recovering well.

"You mentioned that you would like to start classes soon," he told me, gesturing for me to sit in the chair opposite his desk usually reserved for troublemaking students. "And in order to enroll, you need documentation. Identification. I'll admit, I'm a bit out of my depth here—I'm used to helping souls cross over, not giving them a new lease on life."

"So what can we do? What sort of documentation do I need?"

He withdrew two envelopes from his desk drawer and handed them to me. "This should get you started," he said. "I wouldn't worry about a driver's license just yet-I think you need to get used to riding in cars first," he chuckled.

"Very funny," I remarked. The ride back from the hospital, though it couldn't have been more than two or three miles, had been a somewhat harrowing experience. It wasn't so much the car ride itself that frightened me-though it was much faster than a wagon, it was also much smoother-but the traffic. It was around five in the evening, apparently when a lot of people are driving home from work, and there was an overabundance of horns honking, swearing, and rude gestures. I learned two new terms that day-'rush hour' and 'road rage.'

When I do learn to drive, I'll have to remember to steer clear of both.

The envelopes contained a birth certificate from St. Francis Hospital in Monterey and a social security card. I examined the former more closely-if it was a forgery, it was a good one. It bore the seal of a notary public and, in one corner, an iridescent stamp-a watermark. The year of my birth had been changed to 1985, and 'Jesse' had become my middle name. When I was young, Mamá had decided for some reason to Anglicize the 'Jose' in my full name-Hector Jose de Silva y Castellanos-to Jesse, and it had stuck. The only time anyone in the family called me Hector was when they were angry with me. Except Maria, who had done it out of spite.

So here it was, all laid out in print. Hector Jesse de Silva, born June 12, 1985, 9:18 p.m., weighing seven pounds and nine ounces. The names listed as my parents were unfamiliar, and I was surprised that they were not simply listed as 'unknown.' I hadn't known, nor ever heard of, Carmen or Manuel de Silva.

"Are they real people?" I asked him. "The ones listed as my parents? How did you get these, anyway?"

"I...pulled a few strings." was all he would tell me about the procuring of the documents. Carmen and Manuel de Silva, however, were allegedly my three times great-grandparents, who had lived and died in Spain and of whom no record had ever existed in the United States.

"Someone will find out," I said. "_Por Dios_, my name is on a headstone right out in that cemetery!" I gestured out the window.

"Whose identity are you stealing, Jesse? Your own?" Father Dominic accused, more biting than was necessary. "Believe me, this is as watertight as it gets. I knew without asking that you were too proud to give up your family name. I also know that you are too decent a man to lower yourself to criminal status by attempting actual identity theft. This was the best I could do."

"And the certificate is real?"

"Yes."

"How?" I asked incredulously.

But he wouldn't answer.

I don't know what I'm going to do about this...

I suppose I can start by not looking a gift horse in the mouth.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello, my lovelies. I hope everyone is well in these trying times.**

**Is this fandom dead? I think this fandom is pretty much dead. Which is a shame, because there is now a companion piece to this story in the works. Before this one is even finished. Ah, quarantine. What have you done to me?**

* * *

_**January 19, 2006**_

Today was certainly interesting.

Susannah wanted me to meet her after school so we could go out for coffee. I was delighted by the prospect. I can finally go places with her, without fear of her looking like a lunatic having a one-sided conversation with the empty air. I can fully share in these experiences now, too. Previously she never wanted to eat or drink in front of me because she knew I could not, even when I assured her that I didn't mind.

Out of habit I have largely avoided the school grounds during the day, instead keeping to the rectory and the private courtyard. Once or twice I have visited my grave, which I now consider a monument to my old life. On one occasion I found a white carnation there, but when I questioned Susannah she knew nothing about it.

I've found the best way to keep myself occupied is by gardening. It's the one thing that, as far as I can tell, hasn't changed much and I find myself the most at ease when I'm working the soil. The others admire my work ethic and are appreciative of my help, and I've even taught them a few apparently forgotten planting techniques.

But I digress...

Susannah told me she had something for me in her locker, and asked me to meet her there once everyone was gone. I didn't know why she was being so secretive about it. I had never asked her for much, and certainly not for anything illegal.

That I was aware of, anyway. I'm still learning.

When I met her there, she was holding a small leather case under her arm.

"You have no idea how hard this was to find," she said. "I didn't want you to have a cheap one."

I carried it over to the ledge and opened it up. Inside was a very nice old-fashioned shaving kit complete with tortoiseshell-handled straight razor-which must have been the thing she didn't want anyone to see, since I guess it could count as a weapon. I had wondered aloud to both her and Father Dominic where I could get one, and was met with the response that I could slit my throat, which they did not want to happen, considering how many brushes with death I've had. To which I responded that I knew they were called 'cutthroats' for a reason, but that I also knew how to handle one, as I'd been shaving since I was fourteen. These modern 'safety' razors are much more difficult to handle, and I have found it nearly impossible to get a close shave without cutting myself. Susannah, I think, rather likes the stubble that I've ended up with. She says it looks dangerous. I say it looks slovenly.

Besides, I don't want to look dangerous. I want to look approachable.

Which is exactly what I was thinking when someone did approach us. I had just packed the case up again, thanking Susannah for what I was sure had to have been a very expensive gift, when a pale figure came bounding down the hall. I recognized her as one of Susannah's friends, CeeCee, who had the tendency to be a bit..._overwhelming_ at times.

"Adam had a dentist appointment today and forgot to tell me," she said. "Do you know anybody else who could give us a ride?"

"I actually wasn't going home yet," Susannah said, sounding mildly uncomfortable. "Jesse and I were going out for coffee."

"_Jesse?_" she asked, her inflection somewhere between disapproval and accusation. "The only Jesse I know of is the one who beat the snot out of Paul Slater at a certain party a while back. The one who happens to be dead."

I was hurt by her thinly veiled fear, but beneath that, I felt a sense of shame. Most people are afraid of ghosts. I knew that, and knew for the most part their fear was unfounded simply because the paranormal is something they do not understand. But they had every reason to be frightened of a violent one, just as they would with a living person. Even more so, because most people cannot see them and are unaware of the things they may be capable of. Such as my 'telekinetic' abilities which Susannah was initially frightened of. And pretended (very badly) not to be.

"Shh!" Susannah whispered harshly, holding up a hand to silence her. "Not here!"

I had to speak up. "I am he," I said quietly, offering a handshake. She looked up at me, eyes wide and darting back and forth behind purple-tinted lenses. I wasn't sure if the darting was due to vision impairment, or if she was searching my face for signs of a lie. "I'm sorry that I didn't make the best first impression. It's nice to finally meet you."

"Uh...likewise," she stammered, finally taking my hand. Hers was cold and clammy. "But how…?"

"How am I here?" I couldn't quite bring myself to say _alive_.

"Yeah."

"I'll show you," I said.

Susannah and CeeCee both looked dumbfounded.

"Come on," I said with a friendly smile. "We're going on a little field trip."

"You're a hundred and seventy years old," CeeCee remarked upon seeing my headstone. "I mean, I knew you were a ghost, but…"

"I'm twenty," I corrected her. "And I'm just a man. No one you need to be afraid of."

"You beat a guy half to death and tried to drown him," she remarked. "And I'm not supposed to be afraid of you?"

Fair point.

"Paul Slater is…" I searched for an accurate description. "Not who most people think. You know of Susannah's abilities, yes?"

"That she can see ghosts?"

"Jesse-" Susannah interjected. "Please don't make my friends think I'm crazy."

"Suze," CeeCee assured her. "You never _told_ me Jesse was a ghost, remember? I figured it out on my own."

"I guess you're right."

I nodded. "And she can help them. Paul has the same gift, if you want to call it that, but he uses it for selfishness and evil. He doesn't seem to care about anyone other than himself. If it's convenient for him, he won't hesitate to destroy someone, body and soul. He's tried to do so to both me and Susannah."

Susannah looked like she was about to turn inside out. "Jesse. Please."

"Don't you think she should know the truth?" I asked. "She is your friend, after all."

"I don't think you're crazy," CeeCee assured her. "My aunt is a medium, for God's sake. I know ghosts are real, and I know that anyone has the capacity for evil. It's just their choice whether or not to act on it."

I liked this girl, her brash attitude notwithstanding. She was perceptive. And her aunt was a medium? If memory serves me, that is someone who holds seances to call upon spirits. Which can be dangerous. There are ghosts of human beings, and then there are...other things. Things that should not be meddled with or disturbed. Ever. Under any circumstances.

Perhaps I should tell her that sometime.

"The animosity between us," I continued. "Had been building for quite some time. That particular night, he tried to besmirch her character...I knew he was doing it to anger me, but still, if he was willing to say such things to one person, I figured he was willing to say them to anyone. And that was...I think the phrase is 'the straw that broke the camel's back'."

"'_Besmirching her character'_?" CeeCee crowed with mirth. I didn't think it was so funny. "All right, I believe you. You really were born in 1830."

"I was."

Susannah took over the explanation. "He's right about Paul," she said. "Paul only ever does anything for selfish reasons. He knew...about me and Jesse. And he wanted me all to himself. So he decided to...do some really weird things...and basically prevent Jesse's murder from ever happening. I tried to stop him, but then...I met the living Jesse. And I couldn't let him die. The only reason he's standing here with me now was because of an accident that almost killed him anyway."

"It wasn't an accident," I said, pulling her into a hug. "It was a miracle. We're together despite impossible odds."

CeeCee just stared at us. "I'd say 'get a room', but I'm afraid you might be offended."

She was still a little frightened of me, I could tell. So I told her more or less the same words I wrote in my first entry. "I get the joke," I said. "Please don't let what I did reflect on me forever. I'm not going to hurt you. I may have spent a century and a half dead, but I was still human. I know some of my mannerisms might seem strange in the modern day, but I really do want to get back to living again. Have friends, and a social life, and all that."

"And be a doctor," Susannah added.

CeeCee looked incredulous. "Well, that's ambitious."

I knew she meant I have a lot to learn, but was being polite. Which I appreciate.

After all this, Susannah and I didn't end up going on our 'coffee date' as originally planned. I did, however, end up meeting CeeCee's aunt, who, as it turns out, owns a cafe. And that experience is a tale for another time. But I will say this-I do not care for vegan food.

* * *

**Reviews are appreciated as always.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Short chapter as prologue to a longer one. I debated uploading this and the next chapter as one but decided against it. **

* * *

_**January 21, 2006**_

It is nearly three o' clock in the morning, and as usual, I can't sleep. I have tried to avoid writing about this for as long as possible, but I can't avoid it anymore. I know I said I'd resolved to leave the past behind me, but it seems that in my dreams, the past will not let me rest.

I've been having terrible nightmares almost every night. I have woken up in a cold sweat more times than I can count, and I can only be glad I've never woken up screaming.

It still makes me so uneasy to put my vulnerabilities down on paper for fear that someone will read them. As a matter of fact, I hate being vulnerable at all, and currently I am very much that. I suppose my fears are only natural, if irrational, given the manner in which I died.

Were it possible, I would keep a pistol in the bedside drawer, but there are no weapons allowed in the rectory or anywhere on the grounds. I don't know if I would be able to have one at all, as I'm told gun ownership is much more restricted than it used to be. It seems the 'wild West' isn't so wild anymore. I know I am in no real danger, and anyway, I don't know if the security of a weapon would really do much for my peace of mind. For all I know, it might do nothing but make me more paranoid and 'trigger happy' as they say nowadays. I do not want to shoot at the slightest sound and risk injuring or killing someone. The best thing I can do is be calm and remind myself that I am safe.

The dreams are always about various horrific scenarios in which I could have died. Burning alive. Jumping from the hayloft and landing on my head. And the worst-the one I will never tell aloud and which I am hesitant to write about, something so libelous that if I didn't know better, I would think the words might flow from my pen in acid rather than ink. In several of these nightmares, Susannah is the one who killed me. Tonight I dreamt that she seized my knife from me, the very one I cut her bonds with, and plunged it between my ribs and into my heart, snarling, "Go to hell, Jesse. I hope I never see you again."

I know all these things are terrible lies brought upon me by some dark corner of my mind, but why must my subconscious be so cruel? I could weep for even having thought that she would do such a thing.

But, I suppose, all this stems from the memory of a past which never happened. Perhaps if I tell my story it will bring me some peace at last.

It's too long of a story to write now, though. For now, I'm going to try to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Posting two chapters at once since the last one was short. **

**I think this chapter might be a bit OOC. I don't think Jesse is ever quite as blunt canonically as I write him. **

* * *

_**January 22, 2006**_

All right. If I don't write this now, I never will.

It was the year 1850, and California was still two months away from statehood. I had recently celebrated my twentieth birthday when my father announced that I was to be married to Maria de Silva, his brother Ricardo's daughter—my cousin. If it transpires that someone does read this someday, I beg you not to judge me. First cousins marrying wasn't all that common, but it wasn't unheard of either.

Times had recently gotten...perhaps _difficult_ isn't the right word. The influx of immigrants to California during what would later be termed the Gold Rush had greatly benefited, but put a noticeable strain on, local businesses, merchants—everyone. Even landowners like my father. Financially we were doing better than ever, but it also meant that he needed another hand in running the ranch. My dreams of going to medical school were dashed in one day when he told me he couldn't spare me for any further schooling. I don't know whether he would have approved of my wanting to be a doctor-all he knew was that I wanted to attend a university.

"That doesn't explain why I have to be married," I pointed out. Never mind that any chance I had at a fulfilling career was gone. This was a much bigger problem. I would have done anything, _anything_ to avoid marrying Maria.

"Ricardo's family is not doing as well as we are," he said. "He wants to be sure that Maria will be taken care of."

Ricardo's family, I thought, was not doing well because he catered to his only daughter's every whim. And Maria had very expensive tastes, to put it politely. To put it impolitely, she was vain, spoiled, and demanding—traits she'd had since childhood that she appeared to have never grown out of. I remembered once when she was visiting us—she was eight and I was twelve. Maria smashed Ines's favorite china doll, tortured all of our pets (and got bit by one of our dogs, César—served her right), and ate every sweet thing in sight, even the candies Marta had been given for her birthday and had managed to make last for a month. By the end of her visit she had made every one of my sisters cry. Common decency forbids me to repeat the things she said to us. Even by modern standards it would be crass.

It wasn't until a week before our farcical wedding was to take place that I found out the real reason for my uncle's insistence upon it—Maria had fallen hopelessly in love with a slave runner named Felix Diego, and everyone in Monterey was whispering that the two had begun a torrid affair. It was a slap in the face of our family, all of whom staunchly opposed slavery. Tío Ricardo was hoping that the gossip hadn't yet reached us and, moreover, that I would acquiesce to the match.

When I did find out about Maria's indiscretion, of course I saw my chance. She had been sending me horrendous love letters drenched in perfume, and from them I had gotten to know her better, something I hadn't had the opportunity to do since we were children—not that I really wanted to. She had no great talent for writing, yet somehow seamlessly managed to work in her demands for our married life—a completely new wardrobe, a lady's maid, the finest food available, a whirlwind tour of Europe for our honeymoon...

_Nombre de Dios. _

It wasn't enough for me to send her a letter of regret once I'd found out about Felix Diego. I would have to go to Monterey and tell her father myself. In those days, a respectable gentleman would never marry a woman who had had premarital relations. My overt reasons were entirely acceptable—the fact that I couldn't bear the lifetime of certain misery that marriage to Maria would bring, well...not as much.

Thankfully, my parents agreed with my decision, and my father admitted to me that he was hoping I'd be able to find a way out of it, too. I deserved better, he said, than to be fooled by a loose woman and her father who were only interested in the match because of money and the hope that I, as family, would keep her secret.

That was the last I spoke to him, there at the front door of our house. My sisters all hugged me goodbye, my mother handed me a parcel of food for the journey and wished me well. The last thing I remember was little Alicia, only five years old, running to me at the door and clinging to my waist.

"Don't go!" she begged.

"I'll be back before you know it," I assured her. "And who knows, maybe I'll even bring you a present."

Her eyes lit up. "One of Maria's pretty necklaces?"

I had to laugh at that. Maria would never part with any of her finery, even if it was unwanted. "No. Something better."

"What?"

"You'll just have to wait and see," I winked.

I wonder, looking back, if she knew something was going to happen, or at least sensed it. It is highly unlikely that I was the only one in the family to be a mediator.

Feeling certain that I would return, in less than a week if things went according to plan, I left.

I hate to think that I died so stupidly unguarded in a place which I knew did not have the best reputation. The O'Neils tried their best to keep a respectable house, what with five young children of their own still living there, but in those days there was little in the way of organized law and order. As I mentioned, at the height of the gold rush Alta California was rife with newcomers seeking easy riches, and a decent portion of them were ruthless cutthroats who were more than willing to rob those who had been fortunate. None, I suppose, were above cold-blooded murder.

But Felix Diego remains one of the worst excuses for a human being I have ever met in all my days. I had no idea how or why Maria had fallen desperately in love with him when it was painfully obvious that all he was desperately in love with was her money. For all I disliked her, Diego was even worse. He was rude, filthy, morally reprehensible, and in short had all the charm and personality of a pig.

He was there that night, in the front room downstairs. I barely took notice of him. By the time I arrived I was so tired all I wanted to do was go straight to bed, politely refusing Mrs. O'Neil's attempts to offer me a late supper and a slice of apple pie. She seemed a bit insulted, actually. _Nobody_ ever refused her apple pie. It was that good. And I was that tired.

I dragged my saddle-sore body up the stairs, past the raucous drunken antics that seemed to be a nightly occurrence in the O'Neil household, wondering briefly how the children ever slept. Because I was an old family friend, Mr. O'Neil considered me a guest, not a boarder, and had kindly given me their best room for the night free of charge, although I had offered to pay more than the regular amount.

As soon as I had reached the room, I shed my outer clothes and tossed them along with my holster onto the chair and collapsed into bed, immediately falling into the deep, undisturbed sleep of the truly exhausted.

So weary was I, in fact, that when I sensed a presence in the room and heard the sound of someone shuffling around in the dark, I merely rolled over and went back to sleep, thinking it nothing but a vivid dream.

If only I'd thought faster, or even been more cautious. I should have slept with one eye open and my revolver in hand.

The next thing I knew, I was flat on my back on cool, damp ground amid pine needles and twigs. Strangely, I couldn't really feel the ground beneath me. I could just barely detect the feel of the early morning fog rolling in, and the smell of pine and earth. I felt neither hungry-which I should have been by that point-nor tired, when I appeared to have just woken up.

Sitting up, I took in my surroundings. I was in the woods just beyond the backyard, and while the sky was light, dawn had not yet broken. What was I doing out here? I must have meant to go to the privy. Or more unlikely...I'd heard that people could develop a sudden sleepwalking habit if they found themselves in extreme distress, and I certainly was dreading the next day or two. If that were the case, would I have had the presence of mind to get partway dressed? I had my trousers and my boots on, and I was sure I'd taken them off before I'd gone to bed, knowing that Mrs. O'Neil would have berated me for getting dust and dirt from the road all over the clean sheets.

I don't know how it was that I hadn't immediately noticed the freshly-dug patch of earth to my right, roughly as long as I was tall.

Oh.

Oh, no. No, it wasn't possible. It wasn't. It couldn't be.

It was. And for some reason known only to God and Felix Diego, I had evidently been buried half-dressed. Which I suppose I should have considered a bizarre act of kindness. I would have been mortified if I'd had to spend all of eternity in nothing but my shirt and drawers.

The branches carelessly tossed over the grave shifted at my touch. I could move things, and my hand appeared to be just as solid as it had the day before, although it now bore a faint shimmering light. I couldn't be dead. Could I? Perhaps I was still dreaming, or perhaps I was ill.

Suddenly, all the trees surrounding me flattened out as if a strong wind had hit them dead center and sent them spiraling outward. Several were partially torn out by the roots. But there was no wind.

I had done that. In my panic, somehow I had done that.

I bolted into the house, praying no one could see me as I ran up the back stairs, hurtling towards-and then through-the bedroom door. It felt as though I were wading through deep water, like walking at the bottom of a lake.

I tumbled rather ungracefully across the floor, and just sat there for a minute surveying what appeared to be a relatively undisturbed room-the only thing out of place was the unmade bed. What had happened to my belongings? Had he taken them, or buried them with me? I couldn't imagine that he'd buried my gun-it was custom made, and far too valuable. And what about the letters from Maria that I'd intended to return? If he were found with either, he would undoubtedly be arrested.

A surge of tumultuous emotions coursed through me. As my seething anger reached a fever pitch, all the glass in the room shattered-the windows, the mirror, the lampshades, even the pitcher and basin.

I knew then that I had to leave. As long as I didn't have any emotional control, I was a potential danger, and I didn't want to put anyone in harm's way. So I picked myself up and ran back the way I had come, ran all the way down to the beach which was mercifully still vacant at this hour. I did not know yet that I could have just willed myself there if I focused hard enough. But at the time, I couldn't concentrate on much of anything.

Sitting in the sand, I tried to calm down, to think of something, _anything_, other than the events which had just taken place. But I could only think of my family. Who now would there be to act as another pair of hands on the busy ranch? Who would help Ines and Josefina with their schoolwork, or check for monsters under Alicia's bed? Would someone find my body and have to go and tell my parents I was dead? Or would they assume I ran away from my wedding? Where would they think I had gone? Would they be angry? Even if I could, I didn't think I would ever go back home. It would be far too painful to watch everyone get on with their lives, and to never be able to speak to them again, to apologize, to explain.

My breath, which I was surprised to find I still had, came in ragged gasps as my shock gave way to bitter tears that didn't seem like they would ever stop. I felt like I'd been hollowed out with a blunt carving knife, left with a wound that gaped and bled.

I had to see Felix Diego brought to justice. I had to let somebody know where to find me. But in the meantime, I still existed. That was enough.

* * *

**Reviews and feedback appreciated, as usual :)**


	6. Chapter 6

**One more heavy chapter before some fun takes over.**

**I think I've rewritten this at least five times. This one was a challenge. I initially wanted to just gloss over the 'angsty tragic hospital scene from Jesse's perspective', since there are already so many of those, but then I thought it was too noteworthy to leave out, so I decided that I wouldn't start the story with it, but it would still be there. **

* * *

_**January 16, 2006**_

Since my previous entry was about the night I died, this one may as well be about the night I came back to life, though I still can hardly make sense of it. I worry that Susannah blames herself at least in part for what happened, even though Father Dominic was right—there is no greater gift she could have given me. What kept me bound to this world initially could never be resolved, as the people I wanted to see brought to justice for their crime were long dead and it would not matter anymore.

I don't want to tell Susannah that once we met, it was she who kept me here, though it was not her fault. After so many years, I had a friend again, someone I cared about and wanted to protect. Someone I had grown to love with all my heart. Her well-being had become as much my concern as my own unfinished business had been. If anything, it was an even stronger bond tying me here.

It was nearly midnight, and I was sitting in the study on the first floor of the rectory, for once longing for a light read. Usually I would have been happy with what was on offer in this little library-mainly books on apologetics and philosophy-but tonight I was too distracted.

Slater was up to his usual tricks, and this time he had gone too far.

Old-fashioned I may be, but anyone in their right mind could see that his behavior towards Susannah was vile. He didn't just think of her as a prize to be won, he treated her more or less like a particularly stupid pet. Showering her with gifts and flowers and promises of shifting lessons, thinking he would win her over.

I guess I had never expected him to bring forward one of his 'generous offers' to me. In my case, it was to save my life. The previous few days had been rather odd, stressful ones, even by the standards I had grown accustomed to, helping Susannah with her mediator duties. She had grown even more wary of him than she normally was, and I saw the signs of sleepless nights written on her face. Something was 'up', as she would say. And at long last, I'd found out what it was.

To this day I am not convinced that Paul Slater's abilities are, as he claimed, simply somewhat extraordinary mediator fare, even though Susannah was able to follow him into the mists of time to intercept him. With the way he abuses his powers, I have trouble believing he is not in some way in league with the Devil himself. Slater's offer to save me was merely to have me out of the way, thereby securing Susannah for himself-as if she would ever let him! He did not take into account that any change to the past would significantly disrupt the future, causing a ripple effect that grew bigger and bigger, affecting countless people's lives. Of course he hadn't considered that-he is too selfish.

My fate hung in the balance that night, my stomach twisting and turning so violently that I thought I might actually heave. I hated feeling so helpless, knowing that all I could do was wait, that both Susannah and I were in grave peril at the hands of a lunatic. She could be trapped in the past or end up losing her mind, and at any moment I could cease to exist, if he succeeded in his mission. I knew, of course, that I would not _really_ cease to exist, but that, having lived out my life and almost certainly dying a more peaceful death than the one I recalled, would have moved on. And never met Susannah.

Funny how I had gone a century and a half without her, and now I could not fathom any kind of life without her. Even if we did someday encounter each other in the hereafter, I would not know her, nor would she know me.

I was still trying to maintain a facade of calm there in the library (although fooling no one, not even myself), paging through Thomas Aquinas but not really reading any of it when I sensed overwhelming distress from Susannah, but it was her father who found me and told me that I needed to get to the hospital. Now.

And then something happened. I'd been nervous already, but now I felt truly ill, gasping for breath, my chest burning and muscles aching. Was this what it had felt like when I'd died? I couldn't remember. I didn't have blood, but I felt whatever had taken its place run cold. This was not about me, I determined, but Susannah. She'd never been in such a state. Something terrible had happened, and I did not want to see the outcome. But for her sake, I had to. Mr. Simon told me she had frantically called for him, but who she really needed was me. And there wasn't much time.

That must be it. It was time to say goodbye. For good.

_Dios,_ I prayed, _please watch over my querida and guide her safely to the next life. Let her not linger here for my sake... _

So fervently was I praying for her that I could barely concentrate on where I needed to be. But in the end, I made it there. Thank God.

To my surprise and utter horror, when I entered the hospital room, instead of Susannah in the bed, I saw her next to it weeping over someone else and clinging to his hand, seemingly the only part of him that didn't have any tubes or wires running from it. It wasn't Slater, though. It was me. Or my body, at least. My _living_ body, flesh and blood and vital signs-that, I knew from Susannah's previous misadventures, was what the beeping machine with the thin wavering lines monitored. They were barely stirring, and neither was my corporeal self. The silence between beeps was palpable, almost suffocating.

_Susannah, what in Heaven's name have you done?_ I didn't dare speak those words aloud for fear of the further pain they would cause her.

What follows is taken from a longer and more detailed conversation that we had later, as in the moment there wasn't time for her to tell me much of anything beyond that she and Paul had brought me back with them accidentally.

She had followed him, despite me telling her not to. She went back in time, risking her sanity and her own life, to stop Slater. But then the living me, the one who did not know her, rescued her from a barn where he had tied her up and left her. It was then that she knew she had been selfish, and though we did not know each other, she saw the same heart and character she had grown to love and could not let me die. She did this knowing that it meant we would never meet, and that there was a chance she might not even remember me once she returned. But, she said, it is only right that if you love something, you should let it be free.

Where it went wrong was when Diego found me anyway, despite her grim warning. A fight broke out between the three of us-Susannah, Diego, and myself-which Paul interrupted. Diego fell-Susannah could not remember if he lost his balance or someone had pushed him-over the edge of the hayloft to the floor below and died. A fire started when someone kicked a lantern over. We were faced with a choice to jump or burn to death. So we jumped. Before we hit the ground, Susannah and Paul shifted back-but she had still been holding on to my hand, therefore bringing me through time with her nearly two hundred years to the future. As I was not a shifter like her and Paul, the strain of that bizarre journey was now killing me.

I'll admit, I was frightened. I did not know what was going to happen to me. But in that moment, Susannah looked like she wanted nothing more than to die herself. I couldn't have that. She'd done nothing wrong. She had been downright noble.

I leaned down to kiss her, one last time. But I never got to do it. At least, not in that moment.

A cold shock went through my hand, up my arm, and I was gone.

And then I was not.

I was adrift somewhere between the living world and the place which Susannah called the shadowland and I called purgatory. All was darkness, but there was a warmth about it that I would not have expected. I sensed the presence of two other people there with me.

_By God, Hector,_ one of them said. The tone was incredulous and slightly chiding, and the voice achingly familiar, but it was one I hadn't heard in so long I almost didn't believe it to be true. _The girl risked her life for you. You both have my blessing. Go to her._

_Father? _I replied in my thoughts, for it was indeed him. He was a man of few words, but at least I knew that he thought highly of Susannah.

_Go, Jesse,_ a woman urged gently. _I know it has been a long time, but we have all of eternity. Go now. Give her our love. _

_Mamá…_

The warmth enveloped me and somehow I knew it was their souls embracing me one last time before I departed this plane of existence.

_I miss you all so much,_ I said. _Do I really have to leave so soon?_

_There isn't much time,_ my father said, an echo of the words I'd heard from Mr. Simon not half an hour ago. _If you wait any longer it will be too late. _

Time. The biggest obstacle I'd ever faced. The slow crawl of the years I'd passed by unseen, the distance between Susannah and me. The barrier she had crossed to save me.

But we would have eternity, after all. Time means nothing to the soul.

I could do this.

_I love you,_ I said. _Give my love to my sisters. Goodbye._

_Not goodbye,_ my mother corrected. _Hasta luego._

Just like that, they were gone and in the next second my soul rejoined my body and I surged back to life. I wasn't in pain, but the sensation of my heart beating and the blood coursing through my veins was almost too strong to bear. It did not take me long to feel how weak I was.

I could not see, but I could feel that I was laying on my back, covered with a scratchy blanket. Something was covering my face, pumping dry air into my lungs. Maybe it was medicine? It had a slightly strange smell. My throat felt parched.

I must have been mistaken. I had not been able to feel any physical sensation in well over a century.

That wasn't true. It was just yesterday that I was on my way to Monterey in the hot summer sun. And I was hungry, too—how long had it been since I'd eaten? I couldn't remember. That morning? No. It had been so long ago that I'd forgotten what food tasted like.

Memories that seemed not to belong to me began flooding my mind. But somehow I knew that they were mine, and that they were real-and recent, relatively speaking. Mrs. O'Neil bade me check on some ruckus in the barn that was disturbing the horses. There I found a girl in men's clothes tied up in the loft, who said she was from the future and knew me somehow. She introduced herself as 'Suze'-Susannah-and addressed me as Jesse, a name which I was only ever called by my immediate family. I thought that she must be one of my sisters' friends-she looked to be about Josefina's age. She must have sustained a fairly severe head injury, probably at the hands of the man who left her here. That was the only plausible reason for her outrageous claim of being a time traveler. She began to cry, angry that I did not believe her. She had my portrait with her, the miniature that had been a betrothal gift to Maria, and showed it to me. To her credit it did look quite aged, however I did not believe her until she mentioned that I-the ghost of me-had told her I'd wanted to be a doctor. I had never told anyone that, not even my family or closest friends. I knew it would never happen, anyway.

Two men returned, for me or for her I did not know. I confronted the one I didn't recognize, the one who must have bound Susannah. Felix Diego pushed past him and lunged at me, knocking me to the floor as the lantern I had been carrying fell over, breaking the glass and setting light to the dry straw littering the floor. His sleeve caught fire and while he was distracted, I kicked him off me, kicked him hard enough that he lost his balance and fell over the edge of the loft, his yell of terror silenced by a sickening crunch.

I knew he was dead without looking. I did not want to look.

The fire spread quickly to the hay bales stacked in the corner, and now from the lifeless body below.

"We have to jump," I told Susannah. "On three. Ready?"

"No you don't!" the stranger bellowed. "He'll get out on his own!" Roughly he pushed me back into the barn, grabbed Susannah, and pulled her towards the window.

"Jesse!" she cried as they were about to jump off the ledge, reaching a hand out to me. I grabbed it, thinking to get her away from him. But instead, I went over the edge with them.

The air was cold and stifling, strange for a summer evening. It felt like we were falling through fog made of cotton, if that makes any sense.

What we landed on should have been dry grass, but it felt like stone. I could not move or see, but I could hear the voices of my companions, frantically discussing something about 'cosmic meddling', medical attention, needing to call a priest...

And love. I definitely heard the word 'love.'

That was it.

After I had untied Susannah, amid her rambling she'd said something about heartbreak. She would be heartbroken if she were successful.

In this future, her future, we must have been in love. A living girl and a ghost, in love. May God have mercy on us both. Was that a sin?

I remembered singing to her, or more to myself, on those nights when I sat reading in her window and trying to remember what it felt like to sleep, to dream, to live...

_Oh, Susannah, don't you cry for me..._

I called her by a pet name most of the time. What was it?

Through her tears, she finally spoke, her words low and unintelligible. There was someone else with her, a man, praying. She was praying with him. Begging. Pleading that God see me safely to the next world.

Susannah did not pray. As far as I knew, she did not believe there was a God. But _how_ did I know that?

I could not die. When an atheist prays for a dying soul, there must be a very good reason. For her sake, I could not die.

_Querida..._

Say it, I urged myself. You must say it.

I mustered enough strength to move my fingers. But still I could not speak.

"Susannah," the man said. "Look."

"Oh my God..."

Confound this _thing_ over my face...it took all my strength to remove it. How had I gotten so weak?

"_Querida,_" I opened my eyes and whispered through a throat that felt like dry, cracked mud.

"Oh my God," she repeated. "Jesse! You're _alive_!"

"I..._nombre de Dios_." I brought my hand up to where I could see it and beheld solid flesh and bone once more. "My parents send their love," I told her sleepily. Already the memory of seeing them again felt like a dream.

Her eyes filled with fresh tears and she smiled. "You saw your parents?"

I nodded with a tired smile. "They gave us their blessing. My father thinks you're very brave."

She threw her arms around me then—as much as she could, considering I was laying down. She more or less ended up laying on top of me, crushing my lungs which, at the moment, were feeling rather frail.

"I'm glad," she said. Then she informed me gleefully, "You have a heartbeat."

"_Querida,_" I tried not to wheeze. "I need to breathe." Such an odd sensation, needing to breathe. But I wasn't going to complain. It meant I was alive again. Really and truly _alive_.

"Sorry," she gasped, backing away from me and wiping her eyes. I felt my own welling up, but I was determined not to cry in front of her.

I tried to swallow and started coughing. Susannah poured some water into a cup from a pitcher on the bedside table and handed it to me. I gulped it down greedily and held it out again. After the second cup I thought I was able to speak. Or, I would have been, had my throat not been so tight.

I would be strong, I told myself, trying to will my suddenly rapid heart rate back to normal. I had spent years in much worse a state than this and I would be all right. Susannah and I had a real chance at a future. Though it wasn't what I ever thought I'd have, I would have a life again. A wife who was not chosen for me, but one whom I loved with every fiber of my being. And together, we would have a family.

I could have everything I'd always wanted. For a price.

But that's one of the certainties of life. Everything has its price.

Mine was to trade one life for another.

I sank back against the pillows as the room stopped spinning, fighting to keep my breathing even as I abandoned my resolve and wept. I hoped I would not upset Susannah too much. I know she has different thoughts on the matter, but to my mind, a man should be stoic. He need not _deny_ his emotions, but when he can no longer hold back his tears, it is an indication that something is very wrong. Which, right now, could not be further from the truth.

"Why are you crying?" she asked quietly as Father Dominic, looking embarrassed, wisely got up and left the room. It wasn't an accusation. "It's not...because of anything I did, is it?" Her expression told me everything that words could not. She thought I resented her for what she had done. It was going to be a challenge, certainly, but I could never hate her for it.

"No," I assured her. "Just tears of joy."

She nodded, a tear dripping from the ends of her lashes. "It's okay, Jesse. We've both been through a lot."

"We have," I agreed. Slowly moving myself into a sitting position, I held out my one good arm-the one that didn't have a needle in it and a clamp on one finger. "Come here, _querida_."

I had forgotten what it felt like to have a body, how solid and real everything was. It felt so good to hold her, really hold her, and be held in turn. We both smelled of smoke and sweat and hay, but I didn't mind. It made it all the more real. Not perfect, but real. At last.

* * *

**Questions? Comments? Concerns?**


End file.
